You have indeed been very profuse of panegyric on my little performance. A much less portion of applause from you, would have been gratifying to me; since I think its value depends entirely upon the source from whence it proceeds-the incense of praise, like other incense, is more grateful from the quality, than the quantity of the odour. I hope you still cultivate the pleasures of poetry, which are precious even independent of the rewards of fame. Perhaps the most valuable property of poetry is its power of disengaging the mind from worldly cares, and leading the imagination to the richest springs of intellectual enjoyment; since however frequently life may be chequered with gloomy scenes, those who truly love the muse, can always find one little path adorned with flowers and cheered by sunshine. Dear madam, No. LXXXII. To Mrs. DUNLOP. Ellisland, 6th Sept. 1789. I have mentioned in my last, my appointment to the excise, and the birth of little Frank; who, by the bye, I trust will be no discredit to the honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, and a figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older; and likewise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. I had, some time ago, an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. L-, a very ingenious, but modest composition. I should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this new business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country; and I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, I know not well how to write to her: I should sit down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; and except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens extremely rarely, inspired by the muse (I know not her name) that presides over epistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would sit down to beat hemp. Some parts of your letter of the 20th August, struck me with the most melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. Would I could write you a letter of comfort! I would sit down to it with as much pleasure, as I would to write an epic poem of my own composition, that should equal the Iliad. Religion, my dear friend, is the true comfort! A strong per suasion in a future state of existence; a proposi tíon so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand years, have, in some mode or other, firmly believed it. In vain would we reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring pitch; but when I reflected, that I was opposing the most ar dent wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you have ever seen them; but it is one of my favourite quotations, which I keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the book of Job, "Against the day of battle and of war" spoken of religion. ""Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright, 'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night. When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few; When friends are faithless, or when foes pursues 'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, Disarms affliction, or repels his dart; Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, I have been very busy with Zeluco. The doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of it; and I have been revolving in my mind some kind of criticisms on novel-writing, but it is a depth beyond my research. I shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. Zeluco is a most sterling performance. Farewell! A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous commende! No. LXXXIII. From Dr. BLACKLOCK. Edinburgh, 24th August, 1789. Dear Burns, thou brother of my heart, Most anxiously I wish to know, For me, with grief and sickness spent THO. BLACKLOCKI No. LXXXIV. To Dr. BLACKLOCK. Ellisland, 21st October, 1789. Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! Wad bring ye to: The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! He'd tak my letter; I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth, And bade nae better. But aiblins honest Master Heron Had at the time some dainty fair one, And holy study; And, tired o' sauls to waste his lear on, But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, Ye'll now disdain me, And then my fifty pounds a-year Will little gain me. Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, That strang necessity supreme is ’Mang sons o men. I hae a wife and twa wee laddies, They maun hae brose and brats o' duddies; I need na vaunt, But I'll sned besoms-thraw saugh woodies, Lord help me thro' this warld o' care! I'm weary sick o't late and air! Not but I hae a richer share Than mony ithers; But why should ae man better fare, And a' men brithers! Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, * Mr Heron, author of the History of Scotland, lately published; and, among various other works, of a respectable life of our poet himself. E. |